Not Now
by E.DelaMer
Summary: All the lights are off when Elena returns to her house. Their home. And she knows that today is one of the worse days. Damnit.


Authors note:

This is just a quick and short attempt at what I wish could have been more detailed on the show as well as some wishful thinking concerning the chemistry between these two characters here.

PS: first FanFiction in forever. Maybe you have opinions. If so: don't hold back and lemme know!

Edit: As I've mentioned, long time no post, and I have no clue why the text got so messed up. So, please excuse any formatting issues. I'm trying to beautify this weirdo.

Disclaimer: nothing is mine. I make no money outta this. And I treat the characters very respectfully. Promise. Please nobody sue me. Thx.

Alaric | Elena | Dark themes, depression, alcoholism, hurt/comfort, friendship, romance?

* * *

 **NOT NOW**

"Not again.", she whispers disappointedly as she walks into the dark foyer, haphazardly dropping her bag near the stairs. The dull oomph echoes empty through the unlit hallway of her, no their, no her...house.

After all it is _her house_. That's what he said, right?

For just a tiny moment she allows herself the reverence and melancholy but snaps herself out of it – self-loathingly, harshly – a breath later. She can't let herself fall into that hole.

The memories of the "what was and never will be again" are haunting her every time she sets foot on the small path leading up to the museum her family home has become. The constant reminder that the once so lively house is now just that, a house, empties her heart a little bit, drop by drop, each day.

Not now.

Because it's Wednesday, eight o'clock in the evening. And no lights. Because on Wednesdays he only works until lunch time and takes advantage of the free afternoon, a quiet house to prepare his classes for the upcoming week. But it's dark. Because they've become way too accustomed with each other's schedules, rhythm, day-to-day stuff.

Because she just _knows_ that he _is_ at home.

Their home.

Her brain stumbles across those two words like she would over a discarded toy.

Her house. Their home.

 _Not_ _now_!

It is dark, this _house_ , despite him being here which – and by now she knows it all too well – is never a good sign.

If it were a normal day – a good day – the lights in the hall, in the living room, the kitchen would greet her brightly. A song would waft over from where he'd attempt to prepare something that's supposed to be dinner. She would pass the couch on her way to the kitchen with a comment ready on her lips about how she's relieved that the house is still standing and not burnt to a pile of ashes and she would keep that comment to herself because she knows that he is trying so very hard. Every day.

Well, most days.

She would enter the kitchen and watch him for a second to assess how stressed out he is and if she should jump in and help. And then they'd – usually by themselves because Jeremey has been absent a lot lately – joke, sing, cook and eat. She would watch him, pretend that he is not broken, lost and vice versa. She would laugh at his dad jokes and he would feign interest in the irrelevant but still entertaining gossip she had picked up at school. He would make himself talk to her about the harder stuff – Stephan, Damon, Jenna – or he would just tell her about something he'd read in one of his science magazines. She would pretend that she hadn't counted the glasses of Bourbon he consumed over the course of the evening and he would reciprocate by acting as if he wasn't hurting every time he caught her looking off into the distance, where she imagined answers or simpler somethings or her old life. And they would both pretend that the growing domesticity, the routine and the comfort of it all wasn't unusual or anything they – each for themselves – were loosing sleep over.

Not today though. She has now discovered today to be a bad day. A dark one.

This too becomes more and more part of their new normal. It's just something they do. Like some friends who go out for drinks together regularly or to the mall or the gym.

They do this.

Light from outside breaks through the curtains and reflects in tiny, beautiful stars off of the almost empty bottle and the completely empty glass on the living room table.

Quickly she removes her shoes and walks over quietly to where she knows he must be. Her path through the well-known darkness – where her foot prints from last week's journey are still lingering – leads her to him, slumped in an unconscious heap on the couch. She looks at him, her eyes and her mind already adjusted to the lack of light by now, and she feels something inside of her break, leak, drop – worrying deep down how long it will take until her heart is completely drained.

His feet are rooted bare on the floor. Jeans, T-Shirt, that's it. Minimum effort. But at least that. His face is a witness of his desolation. Bags under his closed eyes. Head lolling off to the side. Stubble that can barely be called that as it's passed "stubble" probably two days ago and she is not surprised that she has begun to notice a correlation between his mental state and his shaving habits.

"Ric."

Her voice is hushed, sad and mostly for herself, knowing he can't hear her any way. But she needs something to fill the silence besides their breathing because the sound of their individual breaths mixing is somehow too much. With a heavy sigh she sits down next him to continue her inventory of him. Her hand starts in his hair, tenderly, passing his forehead, which is covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, just as softly, and cups his face in her hand. The weight of the limp head in her hand feels warm and good, calming her despite the circumstances. Absentmindedly her thumb starts to caress his cheek in slow motion.

And she stays like that – a moment, maybe two – looking at him, holding him, almost scratching that part of her brain that wonders why seeing him like this pains her so, more, somehow differently, unexpectedly.

Almost.

But not now.

It's time for her next steps of "their thing": Get up. Walk to the kitchen. Get some Aspirin and a glass of water. Walk back and leave both items on the table. Get the trash can and leave it next to the sofa. And last: hope that he's not that far gone to be coerced into laying down. Get a blanket. Tuck him in. Turn around and go to bed. Don't worry too much. But do.

That's what she has done several times now. That's what she plans to do this time.

After the "Get up" part though a hand at her wrist stops her mid step.

"Don't.", he whispers hoarsely. "Please."

She gasps. Her heart beats quickly, her hands shake. Too much has happened in her young life to not get spooked by sudden, deep, rough words in the dark. How has she not noticed that he is awake?

"Hey.", she answers quietly, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, not wanting to let on how much he has startled her. She angles herself away from the kitchen towards him, facing him although his head is still bent and she can't actually see his face.

„Don't go."

He moves to sit up straight. The leather of the sofa groans as he rearranges until he's at the edge of the couch, his feet and knees on each side of her legs.

It feels intimate to her, something is happening that she can't name. She looks down to their feet and she can't resist seeing them standing on an invisible line that appears to blur, blur, blur right before her eyes. It terrifies her.

She takes a breath to tell him that she'll get him something to drink when he inches just a little bit further, closer and unexpectedly wraps his arms around her waist, moving them up and cruelly, perfectly aligned with her back. His hands grasp her shirt at her shoulder-blades. It tumbles her a step closer to him and then his forehead presses into her middle.

She is paralyzed. Her hands are half way up in the air, her lungs not daring to draw too deep of a breath and her muscles are locked. What is she supposed to do?

"Don't go. Please. Stay!"

His voice sounds so small, tired, yet so raw and cut to the bone pained. It rattles her to the core. If he had shouted at the top of his lungs, spit insults in her face, she couldn't have been more shaken than she is now.

Slowly he moves his head, shaking it, pressing further, deeper into her abdomen. His arm muscles flex, his fists tightening synchronously with his words and she can feel his nails dig into her skin through this whisper of a t-shirt.

He continues. "Don't go. You cannot leave. You cannot leave me. Not you too. Please!"

But the truth is that she _wants_ to run. Sprint. Flee.

The truth is that she doesn't now if she can handle his pain on top of her own. She actually wonders how he is not cutting himself on the sharp edged shreds that she has become. His grip is hard enough that he should.

She wishes that she had more selfishness in her. And for a horrible moment she wonders how Kathrine was able to do it. To take care of herself before having to take on someone else's needs. To be able to demand time, space and whatever else she needs to be able to mend what feels so utterly broken. To not care about anyone but herself.

But it's him and she can't turn away from him. Not when he has been there, stayed when she needed him to. They have enough that should separate them: age, their history, the ones she loves and he hates. Isobel. In the end though, their commonalities outweigh those differences. Their losses, the loneliness. Their need to protect those around them. Their humanity.

She wants to run but she can't. Because it is him.

So, after a while she leans down, crouches to finally be able to look at him, make him look at her – but also because her belly feels tense where he touches it, breathes onto. To loosen his hold on her, maybe even breathe again – and in an attempt to calm him down she murmurs soothingly: "Hey, shhh...I'm not going anywhere."

She holds his face, her thumbs again working softly on his cheeks. He falls into the caress, relieved, watching her through drunken, honest eyes. With her eyes fixed on his, she tries to pour all the certainty she can muster and transport it from her mind to his. And without any thought but to take care of him, as if she does it everyday, she places a kiss on his mouth to calm him, to distract him, to reassure him.

"I'm here.", she whispers. Kiss. "I'm not going anywhere." Repeat.

Then, with soft persuading hands, she makes him fall, fall further into the hand that cradles his face. Lower, lower until he rests his head mostly on the cushion. With a last touch she withdraws her hand from his cheek and brushes his hair. For a while. Just for a while. His eyelids seem more heavy and she breathes more words of reassurance.

His breathing evens out and she kisses him again, naturally, telling him to sleep now. And he does.

As she looks at him there, broken, asleep, she could think about what has happened, wonder if this will be part of their routine from here on out, part of "their thing", this sad ritual they do but selfishly she doesn't.

Doesn't want to.

No, not now.


End file.
